


Looking Through Magnus's Eye

by Sterling_Starlight



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: College of Winterhold Questline, Deviates From Canon, Expanding the College of Winterhold, Gen, Headcanons Everywhere, No beta we die like Lokir, Takes places before the main game, it's supposed to be an accredited magical institute damn it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25532527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sterling_Starlight/pseuds/Sterling_Starlight
Summary: With no way to study magic on Solstheim, Furiae instead traveled to Winterhold to enroll in the College. All she wanted to do was study the mystic arts, and maybe earn a Mastery in Conjuration. Discovering an ancient and powerful artifact a stone's throw away from Winterhold was never on the curriculum, nor was stopping the Thalmor liaison from abusing a form of magic no one could hope to understand. But what other choice does she and her fellow apprentices have?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**College of Winterhold, Skyrim**

**14th of Rain's Hand, 4E 198**

**\---------------------------------**

Furiae Revayn had come to the College of  Winterhold from Solstheim to study magic. It hadn’t been her first choice, but her attempts to convince  Neloth to teach her hadn’t worked. He had teleported the young woman back to Raven Rock with a very wordy letter about how he, a _ Master Wizard of House  _ _ Telvanni _ __ , did not have the time or the patience for a second apprentice (and how he had to waste time and parchment putting it all in writing). The entire ordeal had gone about as well as expected, but  Furiae was nothing if not tenacious. 

“...It is only through very _ passionate and very important research _ that we are able to live our lives as healthily as we do today! Alchemical medicines can only heal so much –infections and sicknesses and the like- but pouring a salve on a  stab wound isn’t going to help it much! And, Divines forbid, attempting to drink a poultice will do more harm than good, in most cases. Furthermore-!” 

Colette Marence’s normal impassioned lecture on the importance and relevance of Restoration magic was cut off when a magical apparatus flashed brightly from her desk, signifying that her class time was over. The Breton, realizing that she  _ might _ have  gone  _ slightly _ off topic, cleared her throat loudly and smoothed out the front of her robes. “That’s the end of our lesson for today. The next time we meet, we will be testing to see how long you can sustain the Healing Hands spell. Thank you for your time.” 

Furiae blinked and shook herself out of her stupor. She had, honestly, slipped into her own head during Colette’s rant. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested in learning Restoration, nor was it that Colette was a bad professor, but her ego was easily bruised and she was quick to defend her field of expertise. The fact that only a group of four, maybe five students consistently attended her lectures probably didn’t help.  Furiae muffled a yawn into the crook of her elbow and looked down at the parchment and quill laid out on the desk before her, hoping to see if she had written anything down subconsciously. There was nothing but a spot of ink that bled through the paper. Furiae groaned. 

She gathered her study materials into her knapsack and shuffled out of the lecture hall, making a mental note to track down Colette later in the day to go over the lesson. The bite of the frigid wind blowing outside shocked her the rest of the way awake. It might have been the onset of spring for the rest of Tamriel, but when you were as far north as  Winterhold there were only two seasons: Cold and Shor’s  Ballsack , My Fingers Are Freezing Off.  Furiae drew up her fur-lined hood and braced herself as she carefully made her way towards The Hall of the Elements. During the afternoons, the students were allowed one hour of recreational time to spend as they saw fit, so long as they didn’t cause anything to be set on fire, explode, transmute into an abomination, or disappear from this plane all together. Stealing sweet rolls from the pantry was also frowned on. 

Tolfdir , an elderly mage with a gentle disposition, was leading an extracurricular class on the importance of ward spells. Every new apprentice in the College was expected to know how to cast and maintain a basic ward, at the very least.

One of the newest apprentices, a tiny little wisp of a girl, shrieked when a basic fire spell crashed against her ward. The flames and the shield fizzled out in a shower of colorful sparks.  Furiae ascended the spiral staircase leading up to the arcanum, the young apprentice’s profuse apologies echoing behind her.

Immediately at the top of the stairs leading up from the Hall of The Elements was a small lab dedicated primarily to enchanting. A low of desks formed an ‘L’ shape against the left and front most wall, almost every surface covered with various components and books for both practices. At the center was a low table with a lead bowl, decorated with a small troll skull and candles, filled to the brim with a swirling green-blue mixture that smelled faintly of blood and dirt. It was used to re-fuse broken Soul Gems, but insofar the only person who could make it work was that Sergius  Turrianus –the Master Enchanter.

A long table at in the middle of the main section of the library, in the middle of a ring of six podiums. Each one was specific to the six schools of magic, and crammed to capacity with relevant scrolls and tomes. The librarian, Urag, wasn’t at his desk, but the books carefully floating about the shelves indicated that he was in the process of re-organizing them.

In one of the more secluded areas of the Arcanum was a reading nook with a bay window overseeing the Sea of Ghosts, balls of magical light casting a gentle crystal blue glow. As it was decently sized, it had accumulated a collection of soft pillows and blankets, making it used much more frequently as an in-between-class-and-studying napping spot. Furiae dropped herself unceremoniously into a pile of velvet-covered pillows, unaware of a certain  Khajiit languidly resting there. 

“Well now, this is a first,”  J’zargo purred, tail swishing mischievously. “ J’zargo knows that he is charming and handsome, but he has yet to have beautiful ladies throw themselves on him.”  Furiae made a face and rolled out of the pile, landing on the ice-cold stone floor. “Oh, come now,” J’zargo continued, folding his hands under his muzzle. He looked like the cat who had gotten into the cream, and had absolutely no remorse about it. “That is a little dramatic, no?” 

“What if I like the floor?” Furiae asked. She folded her hands behind her head and tried to look as comfortable as possible. “Hard surfaces are supposed to be good for your back.” 

“Then that is your inclination,”  J’zargo said with a shrug. “More room for  J’zargo .” To prove his point, he stretched out, kneaded his claws into one of the cushions, and actually  started  _ purring _ as he curled up contently.  Furiae lasted all of two minutes before she grumbled at the  Khajiit to move, and retook her spot on the pile. 

She eventually found a position where she could comfortably lay on her back and read, a copy of _Response_ _to Bero’s Speech_ propped open on her stomach. She had to write a paper about it for Faralda’s class - Destruction Magic and Its History- and she was infamously meticulous about what she wanted from her students. Furiae , in an act of blind hubris, had taken on the task of writing about this book out of all the others on the allowed reading list. The deadline was quickly approaching, and she had no idea how to adequately write her opinions about _Response to Bero’s Speech_ _without_ simply agreeing about everything Malviser wrote. Maybe Furiae could appeal to her and Faralda’s shared Altmer heritage, and be allowed to choose another book (doubtful, but she could still try). 

J’zargo cracked an eye open, scanned the book, and grinned widely. “Are you still struggling with that assignment? This one finished it days ago,” He said. 

To an outsider, the  Khajiit’s constant bragging and bravado would be just that; empty platitudes that only served to boost his own ego. In reality  J’zargo was one of the few people whose boasts about his magical talents were justified. He was a magical prodigy from  Elsweyr , able to cast high level Destruction Spells with skill and finesse that was almost completely unheard of for a  Khajiit his age. The only thing holding him back from being the College’s top student was that his talents did not translate well onto paper- least of all in Cyrodillic. 

“Yes, yes. You can say ‘I told you so’ now,” Furiae sighed. She licked her thumb and turned the page, ember-orange eyes narrowing at the paragraphs. It had gotten to the point where Malviser himself had appeared in her dreams to monotonously read his response aloud, but that had done nothing to inspire Furiae to write her own take on it. She clapped the book shut with a groan of resignation. “I give up. One failed assignment isn’t going to kill me.” 

“You know, J’zargo is always willing to help his classmates,” J’zargo stated. “Perhaps you simply need another set of eyes.” 

“What’s the catch?” Furiae looked at him skeptically. “I’ve known you long enough to know there’s always a catch.” 

“Your words cut deeply into this one’s heart,” The Khajiit said, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. “Can’t I just want to help?” 

“...This is about you giving me those exploding flame cloak scrolls to test, isn’t it?” 

“Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t; who can say? But regardless, accepting failure when there is a very easy road to success is foolish, no?” J’zargo gave a grin that would have been genuinely charming, were it not lined with razor-sharp fangs. 

“... Fine.” Furiae acquiesced. She opened the book again and propped it open between the two of them. 

\---------------- 

Furiae burst into the lecture hall assigned to Phinis Gestor frantically, an apology half-formed on her lips as she shoved her back against the door to force it closed. “Phinis I am so-” her words were caught in her throat when she noticed the flame atronach standing obediently at Phinis’s side. It looked like the vestige of a woman burned alive come back to haunt the mortal world. Its skin sizzled and shifted like magma underneath the dark armor plate armor it wore on its chest, arms and legs. The burning embers that served as its eyes narrowed in annoyance from behind the black mask it wore on its face, and it let out a hiss, dark smoke billowing outwards. 

“You're wasting even more time apologizing,” Phinis dismissed with an impatient wave of his hand. “But since you’re already standing, conjure a flame atronach for me.” 

“H-here? Now?” 

“ _ Yes. _ Why would I ask you otherwise? Go on then.”  Phinis stepped back to give  Furiae space. The young woman placed her knapsack on the floor and walked forward. Feeling the gaze of at least a dozen different sets of eyes stab into her, she drew her hood up closer to her face and took a steadying breath. Calling magicka her the palm of her left hand. Breathing deeply to center herself, she willed her magic to pierce into the realms of Oblivion, seeking out an easy-to-trap lesser  daedra . She felt a flame  atronach fall into the snare and, with a loud pop and a blast of heat, pulled the creature through a tear she created between Oblivion and Mundus. The flame  atronach Furiae had summoned hovered above the ground, lithe and graceful where  Phinis’s was stocky and strong. Its body was closer in constitution to a still-burning fire than magma, only just barely contained by the plates of volcanic rock that encased its chest, pelvis, arms and legs. Rather than the mask of a warrior, the “face” of  Furiae’s atronach was half covered by what seemed to be the lips, nose and chin of an amazingly beautiful woman, and had two dark horns that curved gracefully backwards from where “her” jawbone and cheeks would meet. 

Phinis turned to the class. “As you can see here,  Furiae and I have conjured two  atronachs of the same element, but they are extraordinarily different in appearance. While the exact reasons for this is still unknown, scholars will argue that it depends on which province the conjurer was born in. I was born in the Imperial City, so it stands to reason that I would be more attuned to this particular form of flame  atronach ,” he gestured to the lesser  daedra he had summoned, “as it is what is most commonly seen in  Cyrodiil .  Furiae , however, was born on Solstheim. By all accounts she is from  Morrowind , but she has summoned the variation of flame  atronach most commonly seen here in Skyrim. If we go by the working theory, if she had been born in an area closer to The Red Mountain, she would be more attuned to the variation of flame  atronachs documented to be common on  Vvardenfell , and the surrounding area.”

From her spot in the front row,  Brelyna Maryon raised her hand and asked, “ Furiae is half  Altmer . Could her mixed blood possibly be a contributing factor?” 

Phinis hummed and rubbed his chin in thought. “If we go by the ‘Place of Birth Decides the Variation’ theory, then no. That said, there haven’t been enough mixed-race conjurers to try and test that hypothesis. And, alas, we can’t exactly travel to Oblivion to get answers without risking our humanity, sanity, or both.” He shook his head and waved his hand over his flame  atronach , who disappeared with a crackle and a hiss of steam.  Furiae’s atronach followed soon after, vanishing in a shower of embers. “But that aside. I’ll excuse you being late this time,  Furiae . Take your seat, and copy  Brelyna’s notes so you’re not behind the rest of us.” 

His presentation completed,  Phinis turned back to the board as  Furiae slipped into the empty seat next to the other  Dunmer woman.  Brelyna gave a timid smile and discreetly slid her notes over to  Furiae before directing her full attention to the second part of the lecture.  Brelyna’s notes were immaculately written, with not a single elegant curve or swirl out of place. Unlike  Furiae , whose notes were filled with doodles in between the margins, crossed out sentences, and overall, not nearly as comprehensive. 

Furiae knew little about  Brelyna , despite attending classes with her for over a year. She knew that members of House  Telvanni were reclusive ( Neloth grew his home as far away from Raven Rock as possible), but  Brelyna seemed to go out of her way to be completely unnoticeable. But not every member of House Telvanni could be like  Neloth , constantly bragging about their mastery of the arcane, and how every other mage paled in comparison; blah, blah, blah. The world wasn’t prepared for another  Neloth , so  Brelyna was welcome to be as soft-spoken and modest as she pleased. 

“Everyone, open your copies  of  _ The _ _ Doors to  _ _ Oblivion _ __ to the page we left off on last lecture...” 

\-------------------    
Furiae had managed to catch up to Colette after the day’s lessons were complete to go over the morning’s lecture, something that the Breton wasn’t too happy about. Furiae managed to avoid a ten-minute rant about how Colette didn’t spend her whole life studying Restoration, only to be ignored by her pupils, by quickly explaining that Onmund needed notes, since he was still sick in bed. It was a half-truth, but had pacified Colette well enough. 

Furiae rapped her knuckles on the door to Onmund’s room in The Hall of Attainment, notebook and study materials clutched to her chest. The rasping groan from the other side of the door told her to come in. The young Nord looked ghastly, sweat-damped face almost as pale as the snow, which only exaggerated the dark bags under his eyes. There were several empty bottles of medicine scattered on his bedside table, and a bucket on the floor that emitted and acrid smell Furiae didn’t want to think too much about 

“I brought notes from today’s lecture,” She said gently. She put the study materials in a neat pile on Onmund’s beside and continued, “Colette is also going to come by later.” 

Onmund began to speak, but was quickly cut off by him coughing hoarsely into the crook of his arm. “...thank you.” He finally managed to croak out, voice quivering. 

“Are you feeling any better at all?” 

“I can keep some food down. So, I’m better than I was.” The Nord tried to give a reassuring smile. The sickly pallor of his skin and the way his eyes were glassed over with fever lessened the effect.  Furiae sat down on the edge of his bed, arm’s distance away from him. 

“Do you want blue mountain flower tea? That should settle your stomach and bring your fever down, at least for a little while.” 

Onmund paused, blinking slowly before he shook his head. “I think rest is the best thing for me right now. Especially before Colette comes and frets over me.” The second part was supposed to be a jest, but  Onmund clearly didn’t have the energy to fully mask the self-deprecating tone. Nordic culture wasn’t exactly kind to anyone -men in particular- who chose magic and academia over swords and hunting.  Onmund , having a weak constitution, had never even gotten a choice.

“If you’re sure.”  Furiae said, brow pinching in concern. She moved to stand up, brushing off the hem of her College robes. “We’re practicing Healing Hands. If you feel up to it in the morning, you can practice on me after breakfast.” 

“You really are too nice...” Onumund mumbled drowsily, giving into the fatigue from his fever. Once Furiae was sure that his breathing was deep and steady, she excused herself from the room. Colette would have Furiae’s head on a silver platter if she caught them in such close proximity to each other. 

Furiae returned to her own room, and bit back a yelp when she saw the creature  perched on her desk. She recognized it as her father’s familiar, Nayru; a large, ethereal eagle whose body looked like it had been crafted from the night sky. Nayru’s pure white eyes glanced at  Furiae and she stepped off the small tin box that she had been guarding.  Furiae smiled warmly and retrieved the box. Inside were four individually wrapped  Indoril radish tartlets, along with a letter.  Furiae un-wrapped one of the tartlets but, before she could take a bite, Nayru snatched it from her fingers with a cry, circling the room before she settled on a high shelf. A talon closed protectively over her pilfered treat as she looked down at the young woman.

“ _ Rude _ ,”  Furiae said, grabbing another tart. Nayru fluffed her feathers and began devouring her treat like she hadn’t seen food in days.  Furiae rolled her eyes and opened the letter.

“ _ Furiae,  _

_ Your mother and I both hope that you are doing well, as always. I can’t imagine that life in the College is very exciting (assuming you haven’t caused another alchemical explosion), and I dearly wish that you were on Solstheim to share in my most recent discovery. You remember  _ _ Crescius _ __ _ Caerellius _ _ , yes? The owner of Raven Rock Mine? He came to me the other day, and told me about the ancient ruins that he had stumbled into while digging under his home. Aphia probably hates me for humoring him, she glares at me any chance she gets. Regardless, I did some excavation of my own, and discovered that is much larger than  _ _ Crescius _ _ and I first thought. Can you believe it? Thousands of years of history right under our feet!  _

_ Ahem.  _

_ Your mother and I are going to further explore the ruins tomorrow. She has been restless ever since she appointed  _ _ Veleth _ _ the new Captain of the Redoran Guard. And who knows? We might even find  _ _ something _ _ down there to enrich the mines again.  _

_ If I find anything interesting  _ _ that  _ _ Nayru can _ _ carry, I’ll send it to you.  _

_ All my love,  _

_ Father.”  _

_ “Ugh _ , that does sound fun.”  Furiae bemoaned. Her father,  Orinil , was an archeologist and an antiquarian. He had fled from his home of Skywatch- one of many forced to leave because their ideology didn’t align with the  Aldmeri Dominion’s.

Furiae had practically been raised on the stories of her father’s research expeditions, and wanted nothing more than to explore some ancient ruin or burial tomb for herself. Supposedly, Tolfdir was working on getting an expedition to Saarthal approved, but he had put in the request months ago. At this point it was just a pipe dream. 

She carefully placed the letter in her desk drawer with all the others, and pulled  _ A _ _ Herbalist's Guide to Skyrim _ off the wall-mounted shelf. It was her own personal copy, but  Urag would still most likely have her head if he ever saw the ink stains and torn, dog-eared pages. She flipped to the chapter describing  luna moth wings, and began studying diligently. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life at the College is interrupted by exciting news. The wheel of fate has begun turning.

**24th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 198**

The alchemy classes all took place in a subterranean lab beneath the Hall of Elements, t low stone ceiling illuminated by torchlight. The pungent smell of simmering reagents and drying herbs hung in the air like a thick fog. From behind her desk, Nirya was preparing to address the class with a haughty, self-important air. Her golden eyes narrowed at Furiae in barely-contained disgust. Furiae knew it was because of her mixed blood. She had the ash-gray skin of the Dunmeri people -clashing against her white-blonde hair- and a heart-shaped face. Her mother’s almond-shaped eyes and rounded chin didn’t match her father’s sharp nose and cheekbones. She was taller than most Dunmer women, but shorter than most Altmer. Furiae tried to tell herself -as she always did- that she didn’t care and pointedly took her seat at the middle of the room. Other students filed in, huddling and shivering as they shuffled to their seats. 

“To continue where we left off,” Nirya began. Her Alinor accent was clear and flawless. “I expect all of you to produce a competent potion of invisibility the end of the class today. Failure will not be tolerated. These ingredients are expensive, and the College can’t exactly afford to throw gold around.” Brilliant verdant eyes glided over all the students cooly. “Begin brewing now.”

Furiae slipped on a pair of gloves and rolled a Chaurus egg in front of her. She cut into one of the bulbous, bright blue pockets of fluid with a small scalpel. She let the viscous, blue-green fluid ooze into a flask, and set it over a low flame. Chaurus eggs, she knew, were a particularly temperamental kind of ingredient in alchemy. It was just as likely to create a toxin as it was anything beneficial. A former student had learned that the hard way when he had, inadvertently, created an incredibly potent Magicka poison. Furiae stared intently at the flask until, finally, the fluid began to bubble lethargically. 

Satisfied, she slipped on a fair of frost-resistant gloves and grabbed a small pair of iron tongs. Ice wraith teeth sat in a frost-coated metal container. Chillingly cold air billowed out in a cloud of white as the lid of the container was removed, and Furiae reached in with her tongs to retrieve two ice wraith fangs. They were dropped carefully into her mortar, and she began slowly grinding them into a fine, snow-like powder. The creature who used to own these teeth might have been killed, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous. So cold that they burned like fire against unprotected skin, only the uneducated would dare try to handle them barehanded. 

Furiae carefully poured the Chaurus egg fluid and powdered ice wraith teeth into a beaker, swirled it with a wooden spoon, and poured it into a clean flask. She double-checked her notes before turning up the flame of her burner and settling the flask over it. The mixture bubbled and white steam hissed out of the top, billowing across the table like a cool breeze. It stunk like snow and blood. Not at all pleasant, but it was the reaction Furiae was looking for. 

After two hours Nirya commanded all of the students to show whatever it was they had produced. Some of the younger students withered under her judgmental glare. A girl who couldn’t have even seen her seventeenth summer looked like she was about to cry when all her potion accomplished was causing her body to flicker. A young man violently threw up not even five seconds after sipping his concoction, and was dragged to the infirmary. When it was Furiae’s turn to present, she plugged her nose and swallowed a mouthful. It was thick, gritty, and coated her tongue with a taste like copper and mud. It had worked, however, as she completely vanished for ten seconds. 

“It’s decent,” Nirya admitted reluctantly. Out of a class of twenty students, fifteen had passed and five had failed. Furiae did not envy those unlucky few; when Nirya said she didn’t tolerate failure she meant it. Her disciplinary practices were infamous, and not something Furiae was keen on ever finding out about.

\-----------------

Furiae was jerked awake by Onmund jabbing an elbow into her ribs. She snorted, but it thankfully went unheard by Urag. The towering Orc was reading from a thick, heavy leather tome. His own work, no doubt.

“…What, then, of this Glamoril? It means "secret of life" in elvish. Could this be an explanation for Shalidor's works? Is it possible that it somehow contributed to his work? Perhaps allowed him to live multiple lifetimes in a short span of time?” Urag’s voice rumbled over the assembled students like thunder. 

The young woman gave Onmund a thankful smile and discreetly rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Urag’s seminars were completely voluntary. The only students who actively participated were either genuinely curious, or needed some additional credit. The disappointing grade Furiae’s report on _Response to Bero’s Speech_ had received put her in the latter category.

She stifled a yawn. It wasn’t that she didn’t find magical history interesting, but Shalidor was _boring_. He might as well have been fictional for how little anyone really knew about him. Theories upon theories, accounts that didn’t match, and one really odd claim that said he loved research more than his wife.

Furiae looked down at the notebook left open across her lap. She had only written about a paragraph of comprehensive information about Shalidor. She had doodled a crude image of the iconic beetle of House Redoran, the crest of Winterhold, and a to-do list for the weekend. She quickly scribbled “I am pretending to take notes” at the bottom of the page, just in case Urag caught her not listening. 

“You’re lucky that Urag never gives tests,” Onmund muttered to Furiae. “Gods know what he would be like as an actual professor.”

“Terrifyingly educational?” Furiae said as she flipped to a blank page. 

“That’s what he already is!” Onmund replied, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

Urag cleared his throat loudly, staring expectantly at Furiae and Onmund over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. The two apprentices uttered an apology and continued taking notes.

Before the Orsinmer could continue his lecture, Tolfdir bounded into the library in a whirlwind of robes and excitement. Urag groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Tolfdir, we’ve talked about this.” He began, exasperation thick in his voice.

“Yes, yes, I know. My sincerest apologies, Urag.” The elderly Nord at least had the courtesy to look an sound remorseful. “But I have exciting news: The Arch-mage and the Jarl finally approved my request!” Tolfdir exclaimed, smiling ear to ear.

“The Saarthal expedition?” Urag asked, eyes widening. “By Malacath, how did you finally convince them?”

“Persistence and several letters,” Tolfdir stated confidently. “But that is not why I’m here,” he clapped his hands together. “I’m being allowed to bring a group of students with me. That said, you must be considered an Apprentice in at least two different schools of magic. Your grades will also be considered.” Tolfdir pulled a scroll of parchment out of his robes and handed it to the nearest student. “Everyone who is interested, write your names down, please. We will announce who gets to go this Fredas, so I expect all of you to be on your best behavior.”

The list eventually found it’s way to Furiae. Excitement made her signature barely legible, but she was able to avoid ripping the page with the point of her quill. Saarthal was a mystery that she could actually get excited for. For starters, unlike Shalidor, there was definitive proof that it existed. A few miles to the southwest, the ancient city rested underneath centuries of snow and ice. It had been unearthed five years prior, but had been left largely undisturbed due to a decree by Jarl Korir. His edict conveniently didn’t apply to grave robbers; typical Nord bias. But none of that mattered now. What was important was that Tolfdir had done the impossible, and opened the tomb up to inquisitive mages.

Onmund didn’t even give the list a second glance before passing it alon. “What’s wrong?” Furiae asked, prodding his arm with a finger. “You can’t seriously think sitting in a lecture hall would be more fun.”

“It’s not that,” Onmund replied, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a _tomb._ A _Nordic_ burial tomb. I’ve been told my whole life to leave them alone!” He said, voice tightening with anxiety. “My great-great-great Grandfather could be buried there, for all I know.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Furiae said blithely. “You’re letting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity pass you by because of superstition.”

“I already have enough problems with my health,” Onmund said sharply. “I don’t need a Nordic curse on top of it!” Even he seemed surprised at how stern his voice sounded. Bolstered, he continued. “I have several things I need to catch up on. The answer is no.” An air of finality settled over the two like a wet blanket. An argument was already forming on Furiae’s tongue, but she managed to swallow it down.

Tolfdir reclaimed the list and bid the class farewell. Urag cracked his tome back open, “Now, where were we...”

————————

** 28th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 198 **

The rest of the week passed by at a lethargic pace. Not helping was that Winterhold had been bombarded by a surprise blizzard, ice and snow pounding relentlessly against the town and the Hold. Freezing wind howled through the stone walls of the College; believed by some to be the wails of sailors who met their fate in The Sea of Ghosts. Ice made traversing the halls nearly impossible without first thawing it out with salt or fire magic.

Under Devron Neloren’s careful supervision, a half-cup of fire salts had been poured into the well of magical energy in the Hall of Attainment, making it as warm as a hearth fire. Furiae sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the warmed stone, in a small circle consisting of herself, J’Zargo, Enthir, and a young Breton girl with red-brown skin, dark hair, and honey colored eyes. Furiae recognized her from her Alchemy lessons. The four of them were currently engaged in Draugr, Draugr, Lich; a game where the winner was the most effective liar.

Enthir shook the leather cup containing a pair of mammoth-tusk dice before putting it upside down on the ground in front of him. He lifted the cup just enough and boldly declared: “Fifty-three.” He put the cup down and slid it over to the Breton, who looked at him skeptically. She drummed stubby, herb-stained fingers on the top of the cup.

“Liar,” She said after a few seconds of consideration. She lifted the cup, and let out a whoop of victory when it was revealed she had been correct. Enthir just shrugged blithely and changed the face-number of his die from four to three- the amount of lives he had left. At the end of the game, despite their valiant efforts, J’Zargo emerged the victor. They weren’t playing for anything other than the satisfaction of winning, but that seemed to be enough for him.

“This isn’t fair,” The Breton – Mheiri – said. “How is anyone supposed to read J’Zargo’s face?”

“J’Zargo actually has many tells,” The Khajiit said matter-of-factually. “It is not this one’s fault if you were not clever enough to pick up on them.”

Mheiri sputtered, appalled. “You-!” She began, but Enthir was able to interject before anything happened.

“Alright, alright,” he began diplomatically. “Let’s not get into a fight over a game. It really isn’t worth it.” Enthir looked pointedly between Mheiri and Furiae, “Agreed?”

Mheiri crossed her arms over her chest, shoulders drawn up to her ears. Furiae picked at a loose thread on her robe. “Agreed.” Both women chorused. Enthir nodded and collected the dice to start another round.

The dining hall was built for at least a hundred people in mind. Since the College only house thirty people, more or less, the space was cavernous. Magical artifacts from all over Skyrim decorated the hall to try and take up space. Ancient staves carved to look like serpents, scrolls carefully preserved by magic and, most impressive, a complete Dwarven sphere ; inactive of course, but still looking like it could spring to life at any moment. The walls were further decorated by banners proudly displaying the College’s sigil, shimmering with magicka-infused thread. Magelights flickered like stars near the ceiling, casting the hall in a cool silver-blue glow.

There was an excited, anxious buzz in the air that night, not dissimilar to the eve of a major holiday. Apprentices spoke to their friends in energized whispers as they glanced at the scholars at a separate table. Someone’s knee was thumping frantically against the underside of the table. Furiae was trying to ignore it, focusing more on making her horker stew taste right. Horker meat in Skyrim was fattier, diced ash yams should have been allowed to simmer in the broth, and apparently no one in this province knew was cinnamon was. She chewed on a chunk of meat before throwing in a dash of salt and generous amount of pepper.

Savos Aren, the Arch-mage, stood up and rang his spoon against a goblet. The entire dining hall fell silent and turned their eyes on him. “As you all know, we’ve finally been granted permission to explore Saarthal. After much deliberation between myself and the scholars, we’ve decided on the four students that will be accompanying Tolfdir and Arniel.” Savos paused, crimson eyes looking over the apprentices. “When I call your names, you will come up and retrieve a scroll,” He pulled out a bundle of four, holding them up for everyone to see. “Now then,” Savos cleared his throat. “Mheiri Nuvelle. Brelyna Maryon. Furiae Revayn-”

A shriek of delight interrupted the Arch-mage. The older Dunmer looked skeptically at the culprit. Furiae, who had jumped to her feet in her elation, noticed the commotion she had caused. Eyes downcast, she slowly sat back down. “Sorry,” she muttered.

After a moment, Savos said, “J’Zargo is the fourth and final student.” He gestured the chosen four to the front of the hall with a hand. “Written on your scroll is a list of what you will be required to bring to the excavation,” He explained. “We are not going to Sarthaal to play, or to look for treasure. Our purpose is strictly academic. So, for the love of Azura, behave yourselves.” He narrowed his eyes at the apprentices. “Am I clear?”

“Yes, Arch-mage Savos,” The four replied. He waved them back to their seats, satisfied.

Furiae clutched the scroll to her chest and giddily skipped back to her seat, uncaring of who saw. Not even the disparaging grumbles of: “ _of course_ he chose two dark elves” could bring her mood down. Practically tearing the scroll open, she scanned it contents.

_Listed below is everything that you will be required to bring on the excavation. Please use your time over the weekend wisely, as we will be departing early Morndas morning. We expect all of you to be in the courtyard by 4:30 am, so we can leave by 5:00 am._

_\- 10 potions of healing_

_-10 healing/disinfecting balms_

_-20 Bandages_

_-15 restore Magika potions_

_\- Iron lantern (with at last one extra flask of oil)_

_-Note book_

_-Quill and inkwell_

She let out a sound from the back of her throat. She would need to spend a very long time in the alchemy lab to brew the required potions and medicines; at least a full day. Unless she wanted to dig into her allowance to pay for everything which, by her estimate, would leave her with practically nothing until the following month. Furiae chewed on her bottom lip. She _could_ write her parents. Her father would _overly_ prepare her, and her mother would send an enchanted sword. Furiae shook her head. She could take care of this by herself, she would just need to sacrifice a night or two of sleep. Easy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draugr, Draugr, Lich is a game that’s referenced in ESO as being played with mammoth tusk dice. I tried looking up what dice games were played in Scandinavia, and the closest I found was Meia -Mia as it’s known now.


	3. Under Saarthal

It was official. Furiae was never going to complain about how cold Winterhold was during the day ever again. She had felt it the second she stepped outside early that morning: a frigid cold that stole the breath from her lungs, and seemed determined to soak up any remaining warmth in her body. The only thing keeping her moving at a steady pace was the knowledge that she’d probably get eaten by a frost troll if she didn’t keep Tolfdir in sight. The strong, spicy-smelling incense that the elderly Nord had prepared was the only thing keeping the excavation party from being ambushed by the animals who called the wilds of the Hold home.

Four Winterhold guards marched besides the mages, bundled up in thick, heavy fur cloaks over padded and fur-lined leather armor. The Jarl had sent them to protect Saarthal from the mages, not the other way around. None of them seemed to be particularly happy about that fact.

The Saarthal excavation site rested in the middle of a valley of tall, icy cliffs. The entrance to the ruin sat at the bottom of a dug-out pit, disturbed from its resting place underneath two meters of snow, ice, and permafrost.

“ _A levitation spell would be wonderful about now,_ ” Furiae thought as she walked down the slippery, ice-coated scaffolding, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the support rope. “ _But noooooo. Levitation spells are illegal.”_ In a way it was ironic. Growing up in Raven Rock, she and the other children used to make games out of chasing each other along the pillars of basalt. Sure-footed and confident, despite being one misstep away from falling into the ocean, or the courtyard of the Tribunal Temple. Fifteen years later, and she couldn’t even handle slippery inclines.

She let out a sigh of relief once she was firmly on solid ground, and did as she was told when Tolfidr instructed the group to light their oil lanterns. Golden-yellow light splashed against the entryway of the ruin. A large, imposing arch carved from charcoal-colored stone. A set of iron doors stood between the bowels of Saarthal and the outside world. If there had been any intricate carvings or patterns shaped into the doors, they had long since been eroded away.

“This is a very exciting day for us,” Tolfdir announced. His smile stretched ear to ear, and took at least a decade of aging off his face. “We will be the first people to enter Saarthal in… well… centuries, at the very least.”

The guardsmen grumbled among themselves. Out of the corner of her eye, Furiae could see one of them running his thumb across the Amulet of Talos at his neck.

“Once we meet Arniel inside, we’ll split you into groups of two, and you’ll be given a list of tasks to complete. And to make it fun,” Tolfdir paused, an almost-mischievous smile on his face. “Whichever group finishes their tasks first will win a prize.”

J’Zargo’s ears perked up, and he smiled widely. He marched up beside the elderly Nord confidently -as if he hadn’t just been shivering from head to toe– and addressed the other apprentices. “Well, what are we waiting for, then?” He pivoted on his foot and walked towards the doors. He seemed to remember himself after a few paces, since he suddenly turned back to Tolfdir. “After you, of course,” He said hastily.

The doors to Saarthal creaked groaned when Tolfdir pushed them inwards. Warm, stagnant air smelling of dirt and mold washed over the group like the ruin itself had taken a breath. It was all Furiae could

do to keep herself from running ahead of everyone else in her excitement. The faster she got in there, the more time she’d have to make sketches to send back to her father. She bit the inside of her cheek and reminded herself to stay professional. _Pro-fess-i-o-nal._

“This is so amazing~!” Furiae trilled as she all but fluttered about her designated portion of the main chamber. Grinning ear to ear as she examined the long discarded pieces of Falmer armor. The centuries had not tarnished the gleaming ivory plating in the slightest, even as the bones turned yellow and brittle with age. As much as she wanted to shove some into her bag to take back with her, she swallowed the urge down and instead immortalize the immaculate craftsmanship with sketches in her journal. As unlikely as it was that she was directly descended from any of the poor soul who died here, she still respected the Falmer for being her _racial_ ancestors.

J’Zargo’s enthusiasm, by contrast, had simmered down considerably once he realized Furiae had absolutely no motivation to win Tolfdir’s competition. Picking through the corpses of the fallen had yielded a few rings, the enchantments dulled considerably over the years, but nothing that would earn him any glory. While the ancient weapons and armor would most likely pique Enthir’s interest, he couldn’t very well discreetly shove a sword into his pocket. He hissed out a sigh and pocketed a slightly-less-tarnished-than-the-others enchanted ring into the pouch at his belt.

“As much as this one enjoys staring at corpses,” He began, sarcasm dripping off every syllable. “Perhaps it is time we moved onto another portion of the chamber?” Furiae paused to tap her stick of charcoal to her lips thoughtfully, only to go right back to her drawing. J’Zargo’s tail flicked in annoyance at being so blatantly ignored. “J’Zargo did see something interesting in that alcove,” He nodded to the dimly lit area on the far side of the chamber. “A Falmer artifact, this one thinks.”

The response was immediate. Furiae jumped to her feet and quickly invaded his personal space. “Where?! Show me!” J’Zargo flinched at the volume of her voice, and pushed her arm’s length away from him.

  
“So long as you promise to scream at this one again,” J’Zargo said, ears flicking. He lead her to the aforementioned location, pointedly ignoring the grumbling of one of the Nords obligated to guard them.

The alcove was small and shallow, just barely deep enough to comfortable fit two people. It looked like something written in the Falmer language had been carved into the stone, but erosion had left them barely-noticeable scribbles on the walls. The only engravings that withstood the test of time were the runes engraved into a recess in the wall, shimmering a dull gold even without torchlight. Hanging off of a carving of an eagle in mid-flight was an amulet. Oval-shaped and made from something that looked suspiciously like bone, its center was dominated by a dome of ebony, perfectly polished and gleaming.

  
Awestruck, Furiae reached out to grasp the amulet. Magicka tickled her palms as she cradled the artifact like it was something deeply precious. She was only snapped out of her daze when a resounding ‘cr-chunk’ pierced the air. Something beneath her feet groaned, stirred from it’s centuries-long slumber. J’Zargo was quick enough to avoid getting gruesomely impaled on the spears of rusted metal that shot up from the ground. One the other side, Furiae pressed herself up against the wall furthest away from the barrier.

“This would happen with you fucking mages,” The Nord guardsman spat, eyes narrowing beneath his hood.

“This one will have to begrudgingly agree. That was not your finest moment,” J’Zargo said sardonically.

Furiae smacked a palm to her face and groaned as she felt heat flare up in her cheeks. Her father had always told her that if there was a shiny bauble somewhere in a ruin, it was probably booby trapped. He had told her several stories of the times he had almost been dropped into a pit of spikes, burnt to a crisp, or shot with poisoned darts because he had been careless. And look at what had just happened. She (with some reluctance) hung the amulet back on its perch and waited for the spears to shrink back into the ground. When it didn’t, she tried again. The spears still didn’t move, almost mockingly so. Furiae grabbed the eagle with both hands, pushing an tugging at it to try and activate the mechanism that would free her.

  
“Come on,” She snarled between her teeth. She hissed a colorful string of curses in Dunmeris, vulgar enough to make even the saltiest sailor blush, before kicking at the wall in aggravation. A bad choice, since now she had sore toes to contend with on top of being trapped.

“What in blazes is going on here?” Tolfdir’s gentle voice called as he walked over to where Furiae was trapped, Brelyna and Mheiri at his heels.

“Furiae got herself trapped,” J’Zargo replied.

“Thanks for not doing anything, by the way,” Furiae snapped. “You’re a real friend.” J’Zargo casually shrugged her comment off.

  
“J’Zargo supposes he could have heated the bars until they gave way, but he would have fried you in the process. Not very helpful.”

Tolfdir took another step towards the barrier, hands raised. “Alright, alright. Let’s see what we can do to get you out.” He gripped the spears and leaned into the alcove as much as the barrier would allow. His eyes flickered to the amulet hanging innocently on the wall. “Perhaps that amulet can help you.”

“The amulet sprung the trap in the first place,” Furiae pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest. She glared daggers at the accursed thing before sighing in resignation. “And of course it’s the only out-of-place thing here.” She plucked the amulet off the wall and, not knowing what else to do, slipped it over her head. She bit back a gasp when she felt some of her magicka being sucked into the jewelry. The ebony dome cracked open, creating a swirl of cyan-blue light. The runes on the floor began glowing blue as well.

“Interesting! The amulet and the wall both seem to be reacting to your magicka!” Tolfdir said, unable to keep the awe from his voice.

  
“ _Tolfdir,”_ Furiae began. “We’re trying to get me out, remember?”

“Oh, yes! Right you are. Let’s see… if it’s attuning specifically to your magic… try casting a spell on the wall.” Furiae gave the elderly Nord a questioning look. Sighing she stepped as far back as the space would allow and trusted a hand forward, sending a simple flame spell at the wall. It gave a thunderous crack before crumbling away like it was made of paper-mache rather than stone. With a hiss of metal the spears finally retracted back into the ground.

“Well,” Furiae said, lowering her hand. “That happened.” Cautiously, she tossed a rock into the newly un-covered tunnel. When it didn’t spring another trap, she walked over to it and peered into the dim passageway. “It looks like it goes further into the ruins,” she announced.

“Well now, this is very interesting,” Tolfdir said, stepping closer to the tunnel. He turned to the other apprentices and clapped his hands. “I propose we all go in and see where this takes us. Just imagine what has remained hidden all these years!”

“Or you could not do that, and leave the dead to rest.” The Nord guardsman spoke up with a grimace. He gripped the Amulet of Talos at his collarbone. “It’s bad enough one of you blew a damn wall down. Can’t you just leave it at this?”

“My good man,” Tolfdir began with a diplomatic smile. “While your concern is understandable, we cannot simply let this opportunity slip past us. What’s more, which would you prefer: For a group of academic minds to go further in to study, or grave robbers to pillage?”

“They’re both equally as disrespectful,” The guardsman returned. “This ruin is the final resting place to proud Nord warriors, and you all are going to pick through their remains.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we don’t need _your_ permission, now isn’t it?” Mheiri said boldly. She glanced at the guardsman and smiled sweetly. “But I understand. You’d probably be in over your head if you came with us. The Winterhold guards do…” Mheiri paused to examine her fingernails, “what exactly?”

The guardsman was fuming under his hood. “ _You’re_ going to stand there and mock me?” He spat. “I could snap a tiny little thing like you in half with my bare hands.”

“Aw, you’re so cute when your ego is bruised.” Mheiri crooned. “Why don’t you actually prove that you’re half the warrior you think you are? Or are you too scared of a group of mages in an ancient tomb?”

“I am a Nord of Skyrim,” The guardsman seethed, “and I don’t fear any man or beast.”

“Splendid!” Mheiri looked over the group and gestured towards the tunnel with a theatrical flourish of her arm. “Shall we venture into the unknown, then?”

\------------

The tunnels of Saarthal were cold, dark, damp, and claustrophobic. The air was warm, but stagnant and smelled of decay. The remains of Atmorans and Falmer alike lay scattered across the ground; some had had become thriving gardens of various types of mushrooms and other parasitic fauna. But it couldn’t have been entirely easy; of course not. Some of the fallen warriors - Atmoran and Falmer – rose from their would – be eternal slumber. Skin pulled taught over decaying muscles and yellowed bones, they shouldn’t have been able to get back up, let alone lift their weapons. But these were creatures of un-resolved pain an anger; tortured souls who took their fury out on the living.

Her father’s field journals had always described draugr as monsters that should never be taken lightly. Her mother had a wicked scar down the length of her torso from one of their greatswords; despite decades of combat experience. But up against five college-trained mages and one city guard, even an entire swarm (like the one they had just encountered), could be taken down with relative ease. The possibility of being scorched by a spell was a more palpable threat than the undead.

The air stunk of decay and rotting flesh being burned away by magic. Furiae braced herself against one of the walls of the large, circular chamber in as the draugr’s weapon crashed against the wood and iron of the discarded shield she had picked up. The rotting wood groaned and splintered as the rusted blade of the axe lodged was lodged into it, the edge gleaming wickedly in the dull light. Furiae grit her teeth and trusted her non-shiled hand forward, willing a gout of flame to roar from her palm. The draugur’s vocal chords no accommodated screaming, but it let out a guttural shriek as the flames caused its skin to peel back like burning parchment. The muscles remaining on its skull melted into a foul-smelling black ooze before the creatures finally went limp. Carried by the momentum of its strike, the draugr fell forward, causing Furiae to gag as she shoved the corpse away.

She wrenched the axe free of her shield, taking a good chunk of the wood along with it. Clicking her tongue, she tossed the ruined shield aside and carefully stepped over the draugr. Across the chamber Mheiri thankfully patted a draugr she had risen on the shoulder, causing it to crumble into purple-gray dust. Furiae bit the inside of her cheek at the display, discomfort itching under her skin. On top of twisting the dead to her will, Mheiri also _Soul Trapped_ her victims. As far as Furiae was concerned, the Breton was a monster who hid her twisted soul from the world with a mask of intelligence and beauty. It was a trap that Brelyna was falling into if the enamored, awestruck look in her eyes was anything to go by. But she was a _Telvanni,_ and they had never really cared about what was or wasn’t an abhorrent use of magic.

After quickly assessing that no one had been grievously injured, the group passed on. The air only became colder and staler the further in they traveled. They passed through what seemed to be an expansive, tier-tiered common area or barracks. Dark stains of blood, splashed across the walls and tables, staining them black. The corpse of an Atmoran had been pinned to the wall via the Elven sword piercing his throat, his head hanging on by a chord of sinewy muscle. A Falmer body had been riddled with arrows. Some bodies had been charred so badly by magic, that it was impossible to tell if the blackened and withered remains were Men or Mer.

Furiae’s stomach lurched painfully when the light of her lantern splashed across the tiny body of an Atmoran child, tunic threadbare and rotten, an empty bottle still clasped in its bony fingers. It was unlikely that the ancient Atmorans worshiped her Gods, she knew, but she still whispered a prayer to Xarxes: _This child is not one of the Blessed Altmer, O Ageless One, but I beseech you: Chronicle the story of his short life, so that he may be eternally remembered in the glory that awaits us all in Aetherius._

Beyond the common area/barracks, to the left of a declining slope, was what appeared to be an Atmoran shrine. A stone slab sat upon a raised dais, surrounded by melted candles and clay urns. A bssin sat empty in front of the slab. Carved into the stone was a remarkably well preserved low relief. A divinely graceful woman, garbed in an an elegant dress with eye-like patterns stood in the center of the relief, beneath the image of a large moth, the eye-like patterns on its wings glaring out fiercely. On the woman’s right side, three men in hooded robes, each carrying curved staves carried the body of a king. On her left, three women in long gowns and shrouds (also carrying the staves), carried the body of a queen.

Furiae dropped her bag with a heavy thud and ripped it open, searching for a scroll of paper and a stick of charcoal. “I’ve read about these!” She said giddily. “This is the Moth Goddess, said to be an early incarnation of Dibella!” She nearly tripped on the steps of the dias in her excitement as she rushed forward. She tossed up a magelight spell, causing it to hover above her head, and pressed the paper flush against the tablet. “I need to get a rubbing of this.”

“Your excitement is admirable, my dear,” Tolfdir began with a fond smile. “But I would ask that you not take too long. We shouldn’t let our guards down for a minute.” The only response the elder mage got was a dismissive wave.

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Understood,” She said, completely lost to her newest project. She cackled excitedly when she pulled her first finished rubbing away. The process ate through all of her spare rolls of paper and three of her charcoal sticks, but it was more than worth it in her eyes.

After Furiae took the necessary measures to ensure the rubbings wouldn’t become a useless, smuged mess, the group continued down the incline. It lead to what seemed to be an underground cathedral. Stone pews sat it broken rows before a raised platform at the center of the room. A statue of an ancient Atmoran deity had its head and arms broken off, making identifying it impossible.

Tolfdir announced that, since there didn’t seem to be any roaming draugr, that it would be a good time to rest and take notes on what they had all seen up until that point. Mheiri and Brelyna compared notes in hushed, excited whispers in between bites of dried meat. J’Zargo sauntered off into the shadows to “look for traps”, a suspicious Asger (the Nord Guardsman), following after him with narrowed, accusatory eyes.

Two low reliefs decorated the walls on either side of the cathedral. The Fox God (Shor), and The Bear God (Tsun) were on the right-hand side. The Wolf Goddess (Mara) and The Hawk Goddess (Kyne) were on the left. Furiae’s requests for more paper from her classmates were quickly denied so she, dejectedly, resigned herself to making sketches in her journal. Her tongue stuck out from in between her lips as she tried, hopelessly, to replicate the intricate details of the Bear God’s clothing with a quill that was quickly running out of ink.

For the first time since she had found the amulet, she noticed that she had been wearing it all this time. Pursing her lips, she sat down on one of the broken pews and removed the jewelry from her neck, staring at the mystifying swirls of cyan blue shining from underneath the ebony dome. She poked the tip of her quill through one of the gaps, and instantly felt a jolt of magic shoot through her fingertips. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make her pull back a hand in shock.

“You know, I’ve also been curious about that amulet,” Mheiri said suddenly, sliding net to Furiae casually. She held out a graceful long-fingered hand. “If I may?” Furiae looked at the Breton with pursed lips. Reluctantly, she dropped the amulet in her hands. “It’s lighter than I thought it would be...” Mheiri mused, lifting it up to her eyes. “I’ve bee studying Saarthal’s history for days, and none of the books at the College mention anything anything like this. And out in the open like it was? You have to wonder how much value the Atmorans put in it.”

Mheiri slipped the amulet back into Furiae’s hand. Their fingers brushed, and it felt like snakes were slithering up the young woman’s arm. This close, Furiae could see the darkness writhing behind Mheiri’s honey-colored eyes. The selfish lust for power and eternal youth that compelled Men and Mer to play with the dead like toys. Furiae hoped her smile didn’t betray her disgust and put the amulet back on. “I’m going to send it to my father when we get back to the College,” she informed with forced nonchalance. “He’s an archaeologist who’s been all over Tamriel. If anyone can dig up information about this amulet, it’s him.”

“Is that right?” Mheiri tapped a finger to her lips. “I do have a few friends in Bruma who are into obscure, ancient artifacts. I’ll write them, and then we can compare notes,” She said. Her smile accentuated the dimples in her cheeks. Furiae tore her eyes away and pretended to look over the notes in her journal.

“Sounds good. Thanks.” She forced out, voice tight. Satisfied, Mheiri stood up gracefully and walked over to one of the low reliefs, opening her journal and licking the tip of her quill. Furiae, contrariwise, visibly deflated. Her hands cupped her burning cheeks, and she screwed her eyes shut in an attempt to quell the fluttering in her stomach. Mheiri was a _Necromancer_. If given the chance, she’d gladly offer Furiae’s soul to the Ideal Masters in exchange for greater knowledge. She couldn’t be trusted, no matter how affable she was.

A nagging voice in the back of her mind reminded her that her paternal grandmother was a Necromancer. But that was _different._ Grandmother Nenyia communed with the dead to guide them to the afterlife. She gave hope to lost souls and reunited families. She _helped_ people; healed them even. She had been doing so since The Soulburst in the Second Era. With a conflicted sigh, Furiae pulled out a strip of dried meat and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as she stood back up to take another lap around the cathedral, taking notes as she went.

“ **The only bas-reliefs we have not yet found are those of the Snake God, The Whale God, The Owl God, and The Dragon God.** **The Snake God I can understand to an extent. He is believed to be an early representation of Orkey – the one responsible for cursing men with sub-century lifespans. It is not dissimilar to how the Dunmer regard The House of Troubles, I** **suppose** **.**

**The Whale God, Stuhn’s, absence can possibly be explained away with what we know about Atmoran mythology. Stuhn was said to have fought beside his brother in a war against the Gods of the Aldmeri pantheon. At the time of Saarthal’s (theoretical) construction, the Atmorans probably did think it immediately necessary to worship this particular deity; their war with the Falmer hadn’t begun yet.**

**(That doesn’t quite explain the shrine to The Moth Goddess we discovered. I am thinking that, perhaps, the Atmorans saw her as being the Goddess of love and fertility, as opposed to the consensus that** **her modern incarnation, Dibella,** **is rather… salacious** **)**

**The absence of the Owl Go** ~~**d-----------** ~~ **”**

Her notes were disrupted when the sound of rusted metal door opening shrieked like a banshee across the quiet room. She nearly chocked on her strip of dried meat and, with a wheeze, spat it onto the floor. Furiae groaned when she noticed she had drug the point of her quill through at least three perfectly good pages in a single, jagged swipe. Irritated as she was, she still had enough common sense to allow the ink to dry before snapping her journal shut.

“J’Zargo has found a way further in!” The Khajiit declared proudly, appearing at the edge of the raised platform. He wasn’t even trying to be modest, standing with his hands on his hips with a self-important grin on his face.

“Wonderfully done, my boy!” Tolfdir praised.

The group ascended to the uppermost platform carefully, as the wooden stairs looked like they would crumble at any moment. Behind a wing-styled stone pulpit, another iron door had been forced open. It sat crooked and broken in its frame- the opening a crawlspace just barely large enough to accommodate one person crawling through at a time. Ancient, rusted metal groaned lowly each time someone brushed against it, warning that it could finally fall and crush anyone at any moment.

“Shor’s bones...” Furiae heard Asger whisper in awe from the other side of the door. She crawled through the opening as quickly as she dared. When she looked up, her breath was also stolen from her lungs. Before them was a massive low relief, far bigger than any of the ones they had encountered thus far. Gilded urns sat before it, surrounded by the withered remains of floral wreathes and rotten fruit. Rusted weapons had been left reverently at its base. Gleaming in the light of someone’s lantern was a long, bronze-colored staff; the very same as the one the humans in the carvings carried. The staff’s head was that of a snarling dragon, jaw aping open fangs glinting dangerously in the light. The rubies that made up its eyes were a dull crimson- the color of dried blood.

The focal point of the low relief was the towering visage of a man, dressed in a hood and mantle that seemed to be made from the scales of some sort of reptile. His eyes, burning red with a slit pupil, stared coldly down at the mortals who stood before it. Deeming them unworthy to look upon his glory, ; silently demanding they bow before him. He stood haloed by fire beneath the snarling visage of a dragon, the stone dyed a deep black color. “The Dragon God...” Tolfdir continued. One withered hand reached out to touch the stone, running his fingers over sculptures that looked completely untouched by time.

Shifting to sit properly on her knees, Furiae reached out and grabbed the staff. It was surprisingly well-balanced, despite the dragon’s head at the end. Whatever ancient magic had flowed through the metal had long since died out, making it less of a magical staff and more a beautifully made cane, but the craftsmanship was incredible. Reptilian scales cascaded down the haft in perfect, symmetrical rows. If you had blindfolded her as she ran her fingers down it, she would have believed someone had handed her an incredibly prone snake.

“Do you think it would be possible to take this back to the College?” Furiae asked, nodding to the low relief. Asger looked appalled, but she ignored him. “As far as we know, this is the only in-tact bas-relief of the Dragon God anywhere near Winterhold.”

“It will take a lot of work,” Tolfdir mused, tapping his chin. “We would need to find stone cutters willing to come this far. There’s also making sure they are skilled enough to not damage anything here.”

Breyna spoke up, “We might be able to convince the Jarl. He hates the fact that the College is the only reason people come up here. If we tell him we can give him something like this...” Her expression dropped, and she twisted her fingers in the brilliant red sash at her waist. “But then there’s the issue of money. My family has… fallen on hard times, otherwise I’d offer.”

Furiae’s expression turned sympathetic as Brelyna admitted her plight. It was a situation that the Dunmer people were all collectively struggling through. Even her own Great House, House Redoran, could not claim to have the seemingly bottomless coffers of the nobility. Any wealth that her mother’s half of the family might had accrued had been distributed among the population of Raven Rock, in order to avoid complete economic collapse when the mine went dry. Even their _Chancellor_ lived like a commoner, despite being entitled to the riches and wealth of a Great House noble.

“And so, it seems, that it falls to J’Zargo to come in and save the day.” The Khajiit said with a melodramatic sigh. “This one’s family has so much coin, we hardly know how to spend it. J’Zargo shall inform his _fado_ once we find some willing labor. Leave the negotiations to J’Zargo as well. I know how to negotiate some - how do you say? -…slashed throat deals.”

“Cut-throat,” Furiae informed, standing to her full height. “The term is ‘cut-throat.’” She gestured to the staff in her hands, “We should take this, too. Every bas-relief we’ve found has the humans carrying these staffs; they must be significant in one way or another.”

“We’ll have Sergius and Phinis take a look at it,” Tolfdir said with a nod.

Unable to find a way to secure the staff to her person without it being awkward, Furiae gripped it in her hands as the group made their way down an adjacent hallway. A long dead shock rune flickered pitifully in one last attempt to deter intruders, but all it accomplished was making everyone teeth buzz uncomfortably. At the end of the hallway was a burial chamber. Dozens of shriveled, preserved corpses wrapped in decaying funeral linens were tucked into funerary recesses carved into the walls in neat, symmetrical rows. Uncomfortably small bodies had old toys and wooden carvings of the Fox and Bear Gods lovingly tucked in with them. Other bodies had been preserved with weapons in their hands, and similar wooden carvings of the Fox, and Bear. Among the deceased, only a select few – the ones surrounded by funeral urns and withered flowers – clasped totems of the Dragon God carved from marble.

Asger and Tolfdir made it a point to pray over the corpse of every child they could find. Furiae didn’t know how fluent their Nordic was; just that the waver in their voices increased with each child they bowed their heads to. The rest of the group, in respectful silence, worked on figuring out the mechanism that would lift the gate that prevented them from going any further.

The final chamber was bathed in ethereal blue light, and he air crackled with magical energy. It had been a faint tingle when they first ascended into the bowels of Saarthal, as light and delicate as snowfall; the residual energies of ancient magic that since been lost to time. Now it was like standing too close to one of the magical braziers in the college; a low, consistent hum that felt like the roots of your teeth were vibrating. The magic in the air wasn’t bound to the laws of any particular element or school of magic. It was pure, and primal, and _raw._ At the center of it all was a large orb, hovered several feet off the ground. The magical runes that ran in sweeping, elegant curves around the entirety of its perfectly smooth, black casing pulsed silently like a heart beat. The orb and its pedestal were surrounded by a curtain of shimmering light that shimmered light blue, purple, and silver.

“By the Three...” Brelyna muttered from somewhere beside Furiae. The other Dunmer could only nod dumbly, too awestruck to say anything else. Her body felt weightless as she walked down the rampart to stand before the shimmering curtain of magic that separated the orb from the outside. Furiae’s heartbeat drummed dully in her ears, and she was distantly aware that that the runes on the orb seemed to synchronize with her heartbeat. The amulet on her collarbone grew warm. Mystified, Furiae reached out a hands. The curtain of magic cascaded over her wrist in a cool, shimmering mist that sent goosebumps up her arm. Spots of blue and silver shimmered like stars before her eyes. She stepped onto the pedestal-

The pain that shot up and down her spine was instant. Black spots danced across her vision as she was sent tumbling forward into the cold, smooth mosaic tiles of the orb’s pedestal. Furiae laid there, chest heaving as she tried to get her scattered thoughts in order- but all there was only _pain._ Like someone had poured a handful of fire salt on her back – like someone was holding a lit alchemy burner to her flesh.

Through the ringing in her ears and and spots in her vision, Furiae heard her classmates cry out urgently. The muted boom of powerful lightning magic thundered through the chamber and the air itself seemed to quiver at its force. Furiae pushed herself onto her knees with trembling arms, tears stinging her eyes as her back burned painfully. She reaching blindly for the staff that had been thrown from her grip, an used to to stagger to her feet, biting the inside of her cheek until it bled.

The draugr that had awoken in response to Furiae trespassing where she shouldn’t stood head and shoulders taller than any living soul. The magic coming from the orb had preserved its body much more effectively than the other druagr they had encountered thus far, but that was by no means a comforting sight - it was easy to disassociate any sort of humanity in a creature with a rotting face and exposed bones. This creature’s skin was a ghastly gray color that seemed to glow blue in the light. The skin had begun to tighten over the bones and muscles of its skull, but there still remained defined cheekbones, a strong nose and a powerful jaw line. It’s eyes had long since rotted away, however, leaving behind two impossibly dark pits were they should have been. The draugr was clad in dusty red robes embellished with gold thread, and wore a mantle and cloak made of a snake-skin-like material. It clutched a long staff in one of it’s hands, long and elegant with a pearlescent orb at the top, held securely in-place by thick, root-like appendages. The entire creature glowed gold, and everyone’s spells simply bounced off it harmlessly.

There was a rumble of earth and crack of stone as Tolfdir urged a pillar of earth to rise up under his feet, elevating him seversal feet above the floor. His extended hands glowed a brilliant green, and with a cry he slammed them together, locking his fingers together. As he did, a cage made out of dark green energy slammed over the draugr who roared its indignation in a language no one could recognize.

_...Yet even still…_

“Furiae! _”_ Tolfdir called through gritted teeth. “I think the orb’s magic is protecting him; see if you can do something!” The cage rattled loudly as the draugr slammed its staff against the bars. Tolfdir dug in his heels and grunted.

The young woman chewed on her bottom lip and looked to the orb, innocently humming as if the world outside its magical curtain didn’t exist. Do something? Do what?! She doubted that batting at the orb with the staff would help anything. She looked down at the amulet at her neck, almost burning hot against her robes. This had to be more than some pretty trinket, right? Furiae gripped it on one of her hands, holding the other one up to the orb.

“ _If this works, we live. If it doesn’t, we all die.”_ She thought, screwing her eyes shut against the blinding light an tears in her eyes. _“Gods protect me.”_ Fire shot from her hand, and the buzzing from the orb became a roar. She could hear the draugr breaking free of its cage. She could hear Asger bash into it with his shield, followed by the crack of a spell. She could smell burning flesh, leather, and hair. Brelyna cried out in horror.

The orb still did nothing.

Furiae dropped the amulet to focus her spell into her other hand. She could feel the palms of her hands begin to burn as she exceeded her body’s supply of magicka. “Do something!” Furiae screamed through the pain. Whether or not she was yelling at the orb or herself, she didn’t ave the clarity to know. Fire flicked up her arms, scorching upwards towards her shoulders.

How shameful. A Dunmer being consumed by her own fire. She placed her hands on the orb and screamed.

And then the orb cracked open. Realistically it was only for a moment, but for Furiae it felt like an eternity. She was almost tempted to crawl inside – to become one with the magical energies that swirled before her in brilliant, dizzying colors. All she had to do was move, and she would be able to understand everything. Be _one_ with everything. But infinite knowledge was not meant for the lowly eyes of mortals. The orb snapped back shut. Furiae clawed desperately at the smooth surface. “ _Open for me, please!!”_

“ _Furiae!”_ The sound of Brelyna’s voice snapped her back to reality. She blinked the lights from her vision and turned. The other Dunmer had conjured a flame atronach – a lumbering beast of fire and magma wearing an obsidian helmet – that was doing an admirable job of keeping the draugr occupied. She knelt beside Asger’s, one hand pressed against his chest and glowing with Restoration magic. J’Zargo was also keeping the draugr busy, blasting it with thundering arcs of lightning magic to keep it off balance. The fact that it was flinching _at all_ was a marked improvement.

She hissed a breath through her teeth as she reached into the pouch at her belt and pulled out a restore magicka potion. Every movement made her arms from the elbows down scream in agony. The grittiness of the potion scraped against her throat to the point of gagging, but she forced it down.

“We need to get that staff away from it!” Furiae hissed as she hobbled off the podium. Gods, everything hurt… “Anyone have any plans?”

“I have the fraction of one,” Mheiri seemed to materialize from the shadows, Tolfdir’s arm slung over her shoulders. There was a massive gash on the left side of his head, a river of blood streaming lethargically down his face. He was, thankfully, still breathing. “It isn’t the greatest, but it’s what we have,” the Breton said.

There was a loud explosion of heat from somewhere else in the chamber; the last action of a dying flame atronach. “If it’s all we got, it’s all we got.” Furiae said grimly.

Mheiri gently shifted Tolfdir’s weight to reach into the folds of her robe. She pulled out a yellowed scroll sealed shut by a wax seal, printed with the rune for an Expert-level Frost spell. “I managed to grab this before we left the College. I was hoping to trade this with Enthir for something I’ve had my eye on for a while, but considering we’ll all probably die otherwise...” She gave a tight, humorless smile, “I’ll take my losses.” She lowered Tolfdir onto the ground carefully. “Just keep it busy for me,”

“Mheiri.” Brelyna breathed, “Even if it’s just a scroll, it’s way too dangerous for you to try an Expert level spell! You’re just as likely to freeze to death as that draugr!”

“It’s either that, or just sit back and wait for that draugr to kill us all!” Mheiri snapped back. With a sigh, she reached out to brush her knuckles against Brelyna’s cheek. “Just trust me, okay?” With watery eyes, Brelyna nodded. Mheiri gave her a wavering smile, turned, and walked a few feet away.

It felt like she had grabbed a hot coal when Furiae conjured a flame atronach, and she had to keep her knees from buckling by leaning heavily on the staff. The bronze was mercifully cool to the touch, and she used that to anchor herself. Furiae uttered a command to the lesser Daera and it complied, hovering over to the draugr with a crackle. Brelyna summoned a flame atronach as well, roaring as it stomped towards the draugr on the other side of the room.

“Bring it in a little closer,” Mheiri commanded, breaking the seal with a finger. Like a window had been cracked open, a breeze cold enough to rival Winterhold crept through the area. Wintery fingers clawed into the raw, burnt flesh on Furiae’s back and arms, causing her to hiss. Gritting her teeth, she whistled sharply and willed a fireball into the palm of her hand.

“Come here, you rotting sack of poorly held together guar shit!” Furiae screamed. Her spell sizzled through the air and exploded against the druagr’s back, distracting it from where it had pinned J’Zargo in a corner. It snarled – a guttural, bone chilling sound – and turned to charge at it’s assailant. With a flick of its staff, the flame atronach Furiae had conjured crumbled to ashes and embers. Brelyna’s atronach didn’t fare much better, melting into a puddle of magma before flickering back to Oblivion.

The breeze from Mheiri’s scroll was steadily growing into a gale. The wind howled throughout the chamber, tiny shards of ice crystallizing in the air as the Breton read from the scroll in a steady, powerful voice. Frost began creeping from the tips of her fingertips and up her arms.

The next fireball Furiae threw exploded against the draugr’s face, causing it to stagger back, the flesh a grotesque mess of blistering, sizzling skin and muscle. It shot a bolt of magic at Furiae’s stomach, knocking the wind out of her and forcing her to her knees. Agony shot, white hot, through her body, from her core all the way to the tips of her fingers. For a few terrifying moments she forgot how to _breathe._

Through the painful thudding in her ears, Furiae heard Brelyna release a shrill, furious curse in Dunmeris; the loudest she had ever heard the soft-spoken Telvanni. If every nerve ending in her body wasn’t in agony, she would have been impressed.

Furiae wheezed out a few breathes and glanced back at Mheiri. She looked like the harbinger of a blizzard, skin covered in a sheen of white frost and glimmering jewels of ice dangling from her hair. Her breath escaped her mouth in silvery puffs of air, and her golden eyes glowed bone-chillingly blue. If the draugr had enough humanity left to know it had stumbled into a trap, it wasn’t able to do anything to prevent it the inevitable.

With a ghastly shriek that pierced through the howling wind, the full force of a blizzard was unleashed inside the chamber. The gentle blue glow of the orb was swallowed up in a ferocious cover of white. Snow and small shards of ice as sharp as glass whipped through the air, shimmering in what little light from the orb managed to break through the flurry. Frost coated the floor beneath Mheiri’s feet, spreading out like tendrils seeking to absorb even the slightest bit of warmth from whomever was unfortunate enough to get in the way. Furiae huddled into her fur-lined robe, whimpering slightly. It was _so cold_. Her body hurt _so much._ The only other time she could ever recall being in this much pain was when she was young. She had fallen into the courtyard of the Tribunal Temple from atop the cliff it was nestled against – a careless child not looking where she was going while playing. She had broken her right leg, right arm and bruised several of her ribs when she had fallen. Her screams probably could have been heard all the way from the Skaal Village.

After what felt like an eternity, Furiae opened her eyes. Frost clung to her eyelashes, and her tears had frozen to her cheeks. The chamber was now deathly quiet, save for the gentle humming of the orb. Furiae pushed herself up with trembling arms, sitting on her knees as she surveyed the area around her. Snow had settled on the ground in a large circle at least five meters wide, the light from the orb making the white shimmer an ethereal blue. Ice crystals hung in the air like the glass of a chandelier and- ...that wasn’t right. Furiae reached out to grab out of the ice shards between her fingers, plucking it out of the air like it had been stuck in a levitation spell. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Brelyna huddled over the half-frozen body of Mheiri, a heating spell burning in her hands. They were both perfectly still; like they were a stone-carved effigy of a tragic story about lovers trapped in a blizzard.

The draugr that had been tormenting them all stood, mid-stride, just a few feet away from where Furiae sat. Frozen in ice from head to toe, it would have been so easy to tip it over- Furiae would have done so if her limbs didn’t feel like lead.

The gentle sounds of boots crunching through the snow cut through the silence, and the young woman felt dread pool thickly in her stomach. _Get up._ _ **Get up. Right now.**_ Her mind scolded. Her legs reluctantly complied, and she staggered towards the draugr. She grabbed the haft of the staff and pulled, putting all her weight into it until the arm snapped off at the elbow with a sickening crack. She trained the head of the staff in the direction the footsteps were coming from, eyes narrowing.

A figure appeared from thin air, garbed in exquisitely crafted golden robes with red accents His hood was drawn up, shadowing his face as he walked forward, mouth set in a grim line. Golden eyes glanced up at the orb, before settling on Furiae. She felt like she was being examined. That he was peeling back everything - clothes, skin, muscles, everything that made her _mortal –_ to try and look into her soul. She had never felt so exposed and helpless in her life, and she _hated_ it.

“Not a step closer,” She warned in a low voice.

The man in the robes held up his hands in a placating gesture. “ _Hold, mage,”_ He began. His accent was undeniably Altmeran, but is voice came through somewhat distorted. Like he was trying to speak to her with a mask over his mouth. “ _I am not here to harm you or your compatriots, but to give you a warning. By tampering with this orb, you have set in motion a chain of events that cannot be stopped.”_ Furiae’s gaze flicked down to her arms. The sleeves of her robes had been burned away up to her elbows, sickeningly red burn scars clashing against the gray of her skin tone.

“I didn’t have a choice,” She said quietly. She raised the staff higher, prismatic-colored magic sparking along the orb at the end. “I had to do something, otherwise everyone would have...”

“ _We understand that, child,”_ The man in the robe said gently. “ _Which is why judgment will not be passed for this. Judgment will be passed, however, on your actions to come, and how you deal with the dangers to come._ _This warning is passed to you because the Psijic Order knows that you, mage, have the potential to prevent disaster.”_

“If you’re going to warn me, the least you can do is be a little less cryptic,” Furiae snarled. “You can’t just spout vague nonsense, and expect me to know what you’re hinting at.”

The man in the robe looked at her, long and hard. He sighed and shook his head. “ _Your frustration is understandable. If I could divulge more information,_ _then_ _I would._ _B_ _ut making you aware of your fate could cause everything to unravel. Time has already been tampered with._ _It took several days of deliberation just for us to discern whether or not contacting you like this would be safe.”_

“Shockingly, that isn’t much better,” Furiae deadpanned. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with two fingers. “So, basically, you just want me to sit around until some big catastrophe happens. But you can’t tell me what that catastrophe is… because it could possibly mess with time?”

“ _It is easy to dismiss the gravity of a situation when you do not_ _f_ _ully comprehend it.”_ The hooded man said with a sniff. “ _Your ignorance aside._ _Know that we, the Psijic Order, shall be watching you.”_

The air around the hooded man flickered, and he vanished like a mirage. The ice crystals that had been suspended in the air unanimously fell to the floor. Furiae could hear Brelyna whispering to Mheiri between tears. J’Zargo stumbled through the snow uneasily. Asger and Tolfdir finally came to, the latter rushing over to Mheiri and Brelyna.

Furiae could only stare up at the orb, anxiety clawing at her insides.

  
“Well, shit.” She muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saarthal. Sweet lord in heaven, Saarthal. I knew going into this I'd have to talk about the dungeons, but Saarthal is so boring. Chambers and hallways, hallways and chambers; do you know how hard that is to make interesting? This monster took me two weeks to slog through
> 
> I spent so much time looking through the lore pages to make everything as accurate as possible. According to uesp, necromancers can only operate in The Summerset Isles under very, very strict rules. Anything that doesn't serve the purpose to extending life expectancy, like soul manipulation and/or soul trapping, is forbidden. If an Altmer is caught doing any unsanctioned necromancy, they can be put to death. 
> 
> Necromancy is considered an abomination by the Dunmer people in the Fourth Era (with the exception of House Telvanni, if Neloth's blithe attitude towards what happened with his assistant is anything to go by. Or maybe that's just Neloth, idk). Tl;dr, Furiae would be doubly against necromantic practice because of her patents. 
> 
> Xarxes is considered to be the God of death in Altmer culture. The Tribunal doesn't have an approximation to Arkay -being Daedra and all.


End file.
